


Viking Prayer

by sadlygrove



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/sadlygrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the anniversary of their first encounter a thousand-some years ago, England is reminded of the devil in Denmark. "A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viking Prayer

England stared at the sky, folders in his hands nearly slipping from his fingers. The others brushed past him, up the hotel stairs to where the next meeting would be held, oblivious to what England saw and used to him spacing out like this. There was a dragon--yes, a dragon--in the sky, breathing fire. It was far, far off, but there just the same; England could scarcely recall the last time he had seen one. It was flying in an oblong circle, wings beating slowly, great plumes of black smoke trailing back from its nostrils. A bad omen. The folders actually did fall from England’s fingers then, and he woke from his trance with a start as a binder bounced down the steps.

“Bloody hell,” the man muttered, bending down to gather his documents before a breeze could send them to Scotland--literally. England reached out for the binder, but another hand scooped it up first.

“I didn’t think you were this clumsy, haha! Need some help?”

England glanced up, wincing slightly at the rays of sun just blocked by Denmark’s unruly locks. A stray beam of light made the ring in his left lobe sparkle. “I’ll have that back, thank you,” England muttered, getting to his feet. He glanced over the man’s shoulder to the sky, but the dragon had vanished. He may never see another one again, and--bad omen or not--that made England feel a pang of regret.

“Sure, sure,” Denmark grinned, holding out the binder. But when England grabbed it, he held tight, not relinquishing it quite yet. “Say, do you know what day it is?”

England frowned. “Tuesday,” he replied, the unspoken ‘idiot’ reflected in both his eyes and tone of voice.

“Haha, no I mean the date!”

“The eighth; it’s printed on the conference letterhead, git.” England gave another tug at the binder, but Denmark’s grip was like steel. “Leggo, you--”

“Eighth of June, you say?” Denmark smiled brilliantly. “That’s what I thought. Well, I’ll see you inside!” With that, he let go of the binder and brushed past England, whistling a little tune.

“What was that all about,” England muttered, not noticing when Norway passed him on his other side until the man spoke. The man could sneak up on you with a haunting ease sometimes, England reflected.

“Did you see the dragon?”

England started. “Of course I did; they’re bloody hard to miss.”

“Most people seem to miss them these days anyway.” A tiny smile flashed across Norway’s face before fading. “Just as you have seemed to miss that today will be an unlucky day for you.”

England scowled; as much as he appreciated having someone who didn’t think he was mad when he spoke of fae and elves, Norway’s magic was quite different from his own. There were some things the man‘s glazed blue eyes could see that England never would, though he took some comfort that perhaps Norway couldn‘t see all he did either. “What are you talking about?”

As if he’d read England’s mind: “You haven’t been blind to anything; it’s not a magic that can be seen. It’s just,” Norway shrugged, “you have forgotten. Forgetting things can hurt others, you know. Their pride.”

“Out with it,” England snapped, “I’m short on time as it is.” They were the last ones outside on the steps.

Norway put his hand on England’s shoulder, face still blank, and leaned in until his lips touched the shell of his flushed ear: “Lindisfarne.” England’s stack of papers fell to the stairs again, and Norway did not help him recollect them. He clenched the man’s shoulder through his suit, feeling England quake. A dark aura hung around him; Norway drank it in, relishing in the taste.

England wasn’t there anymore to notice that, however; he was somewhere centuries ago, on an island. A tiny island of little to no consequence with a quaint monastery and nice monks who always had a spare room for him. Except now this room was on fire, the monks drowning in the ocean beside ships at the island’s shore. His back ached and dripped blood, his throat burned from inhaling the smoke of burnt wood and flesh. A man with blue eyes and golden hair poured blood on the altar, knocked down statues of saints with his axe and hammer, laughing all the way. England had yelled out in fury and pain, but the man had only laughed and twisted his body further, pillaging everything. Surely this--this man--must be punishment from God. Surely England had done something to deserve this, he thought as he slipped into unconsciousness beneath the altar. Why else would this happen, why else?

When England started, woke from his nightmare, he was alone on the steps. A bead of sweat dripped from his head to the papers at his feet. England left them, walked stiffly into the building and headed straight for the lobby bathroom and vomited up breakfast. Slowly, he stood, arm braced on the wall of the stall, breathing haggard. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this.

Vision fading in and out, England made his way to the sink and tried to wash the acid out of his mouth as best he could, splashing cold water on his face. June eighth; there had been many June eights in his lifetime, it didn’t surprise him that he had forgotten about the day he’d first seen those horrible ships. England stared at his wet face in the mirror, noticed how pale he looked. To have such a strong reaction centuries later, England could only marvel at himself. Water wasn’t working; he needed something strong to wash his mouth out, so he headed to the bar. Fuck the meeting. They could start without him.

“Whiskey,” England muttered, not bothering to sit at the bar. The man behind the counter slid a shot to him and England downed it gratefully. It burned down his throat and cleared his head, and tasted worse than the vomit. “Keep the change.”

It’s not like it should matter, England decided as he headed back towards the conference room. It happened over a thousand years ago. They’d all done rotten things--had rotten things done to them--and moved on, got over it. Because that’s what you did when your lifespan was nearly immortal; you forgave one another. If you didn’t, you’d probably be all alone in the world. England knew he would be, for the most part. Well, maybe there was a nation in South America that didn’t hate his guts at some point. …maybe. He was losing track in his old age.

“Oh there you are!”

England froze. He’d been standing outside the door staring at the carpet for, for… he didn’t know how long. Swallowing the whiskey taste in his mouth, England turned to face the speaker. “The meeting underway?”

“Yeah, Germany kinda insisted we get started,” Denmark shrugged. “I ducked out for a drink actually. Wanna go to the bar?”

“Already been,” England scowled, crossing his arms across his chest, lips thinned in irritation. He wasn’t going to let his voice shake, he wasn’t. “What’s this shite you’re pulling about today’s date?”

“Hmm?” Denmark kept smiling, and cocked his head to the side, hands in his tailored suit pockets. “What about it? I just forgot to look at the calendar today I guess.”

Denmark was in a black suit with a crimson red shirt, England noted, shiny black shoes on his feet. He looked like he’d bought it at the same place the devil might buy a suit. “Cut the crap; I know you’re thinking about Lindisfarne,” England hissed. 

“You were a scrawny thing back then; just gotten through a nasty famine, right?”

England started. He had expected the taller man to deny it, to laugh it off. Denmark was still smiling, amiable as always. It--he would never admit it--scared the fuck out of England. “I had,” he said quietly, unsure of how else to reply.

“You sure you don’t want to go to the bar?” Denmark’s smile did not slip an inch. “Germany’s going on about how we’re all shit heads, so it’ll be awhile before we get to any actual proposals.”

That was true, at least; England could hear the yelling through the wooden doors. “No, thank you.” 

Denmark just stared at him, smiling, smiling, smiling, and England felt his skin crawl. He had backed up to the wall at some point, arms crossed and completely defensive. He just wanted Denmark to leave--the deserted hallway, the hotel, the fucking continent--but the man just stood there in his sharp suit, smiling pleasantly. England knew he was losing it when he started glancing up at the man’s shoulder for an axe handle. The air was static between them--not that Denmark’s face belayed it, but he had to have felt it to. He just had to.

“Well,” Denmark finally said after a few tense moments, “I guess I’ll go solo then. Call me if Germany sends the UN out to get me, eh?” He gave a little shrug and finally turned, heading towards the bar down the hall.

England’s nails cut into his palms as he watched the taller man walk away. He was breathing through his mouth, and a whisper escaped his lips as he watched Denmark’s broad back shift with each step. It was as automatic as spelling his own name: “ _A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine_.” England was just about to turn and reach for the conference doors when Denmark froze. England froze too, and felt the bile rise again in the back of his throat.

A few quiet moments passed, before Denmark’s voice rang out through the hallway, calm and flat. “What was that?”

England began to shake. He put his hand on the gaudy hotel wallpaper behind him, steadied himself and swallowed the acid in his throat back down.

Slowly, Denmark turned, a plastic smile on his face and those large hands still in his pockets. He sauntered back to the wall, back to England slowly, and closed in. If he dared to move from the wall, England knew he could collapse; he could not collapse. He could not show weakness before this man, or he would exploit it in any--every--way. How could he have possibly forgotten this feeling, this terror closing in?

Denmark lifted his arm, braced it on the wall above England’s head. His smile was softer, pliant now, but his eyes as sharp as razors. “Say it again,” he murmured.

England balked at him; he had once again called the devil to his shores. Every muscle in his body went tight as a rope stretched above a corpse’s neck.

“Say it again,” Denmark repeated, eyes unblinking, mouth still smiling in that awful way.

England suddenly felt years younger and ugly, in a horrid smock some nice monks had lent him, face tear-stained and with hair unkempt. Before him was someone with broad shoulders and an imposing silhouette, dressed in the finest of furs and as handsome as he was dangerous. And suddenly, just like that, England remembered what he had forgotten.  _Forgetting things can hurt others--their pride._  He had done a great disservice. 

A sick, cold shiver worked through England’s body as he whispered: “ _A furore… Normannorum libera nos… Domine._ ” Denmark’s eyes went wide and wild, a breath escaping from between his teeth as the doors opened beside them.

“Hey, you two are missing--” Canada stopped and stared. “What’s going on?”

Denmark grinned playfully at the younger nation, but didn‘t remove his arm from the wall. “Praying.”

“Praying,” Canada repeated. He glanced over to England, uncertain. “Well, you should… hurry up; we’re going to start the propositions as soon as Russia and America are done yelling at one another.”

“It’s alright, Canada,” England said, voice a hell of a lot stronger than he could have thought possible. His eyes, however, did not leave Denmark’s face. “We’ll be in shortly.”

“Yep,” Denmark chirped.

Unconvinced, Canada looked between the two men, somewhat bewildered. “England, are you sure--”

“Yes, Canada.” England’s eyes flickered over to him for the barest moment. “Everything is fine.”

Denmark didn’t say anything.

“Alright.” Canada hesitated, thought better of it, and pulled the conference doors shut behind him.

Without even a moment’s hesitation, Denmark’s free hand ghosted up England’s chest and landed on his neck, squeezing softly. “Say it again.”

Somehow, that hand and that pressure anchored England; he was no longer shaking, no longer whispering. “ _A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine,_ ” he hissed, and the hand squeezed at his throat sending fire through his blood.

Denmark gave the barest of groans and released the throat, tracing a thumb over England’s lips. “God doesn’t care,” he muttered. “God doesn’t care.”

Green eyes stared back at the wild blue ones. “I know.”

There was another conference room across the hallway, and they shoved a chair up to he door handle to brace it shut. Even though his clothes were undoubtedly ripped, England was glad to be rid of them; he wasn’t a suit and tie. That wasn’t him, and he knew somehow that Denmark--also naked but free--felt the same. The man had him shoved up against the wall, biting down on his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. England cried out, ripped at the man’s hair, and only felt distant shame at how hard he was. He didn’t care. He would not feel guilty about it afterwards, because he didn’t give a shit.

Denmark licked the blood from his teeth, eyes absolutely mad with a lust that made England shiver. Nobody looked at him like that anymore. Roughly, Denmark grabbed England’s hair and shoved him down to the carpet, yanked his head back and pushed his cock past England’s lips with a feral groan. 

He let Denmark fuck his mouth, and scored his nails down the backs of strong thighs, raising up red lines in their wake. Denmark’s fingers tightened in his hair and he hissed, jamming his cock to the back of England’s throat. England coughed around it, tried to back away frantically, but Denmark’s grip was tight and held his face to his hips. He was panting hard, twitching in England’s mouth. “Say it,” Denmark whispered, mouth cracking into a strange smile. “Say it.”

Slowly, the cock was dragged from England’s mouth, just so the head rested on his bruised lips. England took a steadying breath and glared up at Denmark through his ravaged blond locks and whispered it again. “ _A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine._ ” He gave the cockhead a tiny, miniscule bite.

Denmark shuddered, and dragged England up from the floor before turning him to face the wall. He pressed his chest flush to the scarred back, and put England’s hand around his own cock. “If you want to come,” he whispered darkly, “do it yourself. I won’t.” Denmark’s length was pressed into the cleft of England’s ass, just making its presence and potential known. 

England swallowed stiffly and never took his gaze from the wallpaper as Denmark wrapped his fingers around his own cock. The touch was welcome, and he began to stroke himself slowly as the heat from Denmark’s chest vanished. Then, a hot tongue traced the fading axe scar across England’s back, and he shuddered in ill delight. England bit his lip; he knew if he told--asked--Denmark to fuck him, the other man wouldn’t. So he kept quiet, arching his hips as Denmark positioned them, and gave his cock slow, languid strokes.

There was no preparation, as England had guessed: Denmark’s cockhead rested at his entrance for a brief, wonderful second of just touching, before he spread England and shoved his way inside. England gave a shout, sped up his strokes, and tried to adjust to the unyielding length. It was crawling up inside him, stretching and awful and desired all at the same time, until Denmark was completely buried and panting into the back of England’s sweat-streaked neck. He wanted the man to move. England licked his lips and groaned, hand still tight around his cock; “ _A furore Normannorum…_ ”

With a shudder, Denmark began to work his hips, stretching England and rubbing the bundle of nerves within. England gasped, stroked his cock harder, bucked his hips to help Denmark move. It was getting easier for Denmark to fuck him--there must be blood--and England groaned, biting his lip as he came hard enough to make his vision streak with light and color. “ _A-a furore!_ ”

Denmark snarled and fucked England into the wall, nails biting into and bruising his hips. He wrenched back England’s head and kept slamming his cock into the quaking, euphoric man. “Have you missed this as much as I have,” he hissed. England could feel his poisonous smile. “Do you think about me every time someone fucks you to the brink of annihilation?” England gave a strangled groan that was answer enough. With one final, brutal thrust, Denmark wrapped an arm around England’s waist and squeezed him close, biting down on flushed skin as he came.

England was pressed to the gaudy wall paper, panting as Denmark’s teeth released his skin, arms slowly wrapping around him. When he drew out, England could feel fluid dripping down his legs. “I’m not sorry,” Denmark whispered, then swallowed. His voice sounded lighter somehow, and he didn’t release England from his hold.

“I’ve never asked you to be.”

He could feel Denmark’s whole body stiffen. “I don’t want your forgiveness.”

“You just don’t want me to forget,” England murmured. Denmark’s body stiffened even further, but England brought his hand up all the same and gently touched the man’s wrist. “I’m sorry I did; it was rude of me.” He understood.

Slowly, the taller man’s muscles relaxed, and Denmark sagged against England, completely out of breath. “Can we go to the bar now?”

All England wanted to do now was sleep, and maybe shower. “Later. Later we can get pissed with Spain and France and Turkey; how ‘bout it?”

Denmark nodded, arms still wrapped around England. Hesitantly, he gave the nape of England’s neck a kiss before he released the shorter man.

“What did you think,” England asked suddenly, “when you first saw me?”

“…that you were a scrawny little fuck with a bad mouth.” Denmark paused, thought for a moment. “And… me?”

“I thought you were the devil.”

Denmark smiled, more pleased with that than he probably should be.

**Author's Note:**

> A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine, "From the fury of the Northmen deliver us, O Lord."
> 
> OP provided me with these:
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lindesfarne
> 
> http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/vikfury.shtml


End file.
